


The Microwave Is On Fire

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich as Fathers, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, just pure fluff, trying to forget that 5x12 ever happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3700719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ian leans down beside the wooden chair,"Its your birthday, Yev. Why do you need to surprise us?”<br/>“For looking after me for three whole years.” Yevgeny gasps dramatically, lifting up four fingers, waving them before Ian's face. ""</p>
<p>"*trying to forget 5x12* prompt: it's yev's third birthday and he spend the day with his parents, ian fells so lucky and when yev is asleep he just wants to cuddle with mickey. Thanks xxx"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Microwave Is On Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you like this???? For le Anon. 
> 
> I WANT TO FORGET THAT EPISODE TOO, FUCKING HELL IM SO PISSED OFF WITH IT, like did they even think about characterisation, or the fact that Ian's character from the previous seasons were scrapped in that short amount of dialogue?? erg
> 
> Prompt me or cry with me ; im-an-angel-y0u-ass.tumblr.com

“Ah, fuck.” Ian rubs at his eyes, the alarm clock at the side of the bed awakening him from what he wanted to call, post-mortal sex sleep. Rolling out of the embrace of his boyfriend, his chest shivering at the first sign of cold, he smacks the box quiet. The apartment is silent, something he would of never guessed to happen in _their_ home.

 

“Mickey-” He pushes at the brunettes chest, who curls over, facing away from Ian's urgent shoves. “Mick, wake the fuck up.” Ian pokes at his sides, hinting at the sensitive spots at the bottom of the older man’s ribs.

 

“Mmmmph-” Mickey wipes his face, sleepily against their shared pillow, he barely manages words, and habitually he smacks his lips together. “What the fuck you want, Gallagher, people are tying to sleep here.”

 

Ian pokes him again, this time harder and less playful. “Mickey, are you listening to me? Wake the fuck up.” As much as he knows he pulling a nerve, he's a little bit concerned and most likely a little confused. Mickey shoves at his hand, grunting into the pillow he tried to smother his face into.

 

The brunette mumbles something into the pillow, before tossing around, angrily. “What the fuck do you want?” He rubs at his eyes, yawning wildly, as Ian tries to process some sort of explanation of why he woke up his boyfriend at the ass-crack of dawn.

 

“You do realise what day it is right?” Ian asks, tilting his head. Mickey nods, as if Ian was asking the most crudest question of all time, he rubs at his forehead – trying to stop his eyes from drooping all over again. “You seriously think I'd forget my own fucking son's birthday?” he spits, knowing that Ian wasn't directly saying that.

 

“No, asshole.” Ian slaps Mickey's chest. “Do you not think its really fucked weird that its your son's third _birthday_ and he hasn't ran in here demanding his presents?” Mickey stretches his left arm, scanning the room to find no presence of his son, but just a pile of presents still untouched at the end of the bed.

 

“Is that a bad thing?” Mickey shrugs, laying back down against the sheets.

 

Ian makes a growling sound in his throat, like he's annoyed. “Mick, he's _three,_ what else can he be doing?” Ever since they moved into their new apartment, with Yevgeny, Ian had always been protective of where the little boy was, after all- Yevgeny started walking when he was around a year old,nothing was more scary than having your child run into the arms of an unknown stranger.

 

“I dunno, fucking sleeping?” Mickey scowls, scrunching his brow. “Have you seriously woken me up just to tell me our son is fucking _sleeping?”_ He rubs his face against his pillow, pretending to like out a disgruntled cry. Ian rolls his eyes, pulling back the cover he dodges a couple of lethal, feet-killing toys and searches for some sweats.

“You getting up or what?” Ian shoves at Mickey's legs, tangled in the sheets.

 

Mickey groans, pulling his pillow over his ears. “Fuck off, why you even getting up this early? He's probably sleeping, like _I_ want to but _someone_ won't fucking let me.” Ian grabs hold of the Mickey's limped out foot, hanging exposed from the covers, he grabs his heel, giggling as Mickey proceeded to kick back.

 

“I bet he's _not_ sleeping, he ain't a lazy-ass like you.” Ian smirks, hitting Mickey's ass hard before running out of the room. When he opens the door, he hears light, babbled singing coming from the living room, or was it the kitchen? They ate in all the rooms of the apartment, so the kitchen was really a _kitchen_ more of a food bank. When he walks to the creation of the noise, his eyes latch to their three-year old, stood on-top of a dining room chair, leaning against the counter.

 

“Hey, Yevy, what you doing?” Ian calls out, folding his arms with a smile. Yevgeny jolted at his fathers voice, nearly falling backwards on his chair. The counter top is covered in flour, as-well as Yevgeny's hands and face. The little boy, shrugs innocently, gleaming as he notices Ian coming towards him. “I'm making pancakes, daddy.”

 

Mickey enters the room, missing the whole situation, he walks over to the kitchen cabinet and pulls out Ian's three sets of pills. The redhead walks over, still confused at why his son was making pancakes, on his _own_ birthday. Ian takes the pills from Mickey's open palm, he swallows them down with his glass of water. “You know we could of made them for you, little man.” He walks over to Yevgeny, ruffling his hair.

 

“I wanted to surprise you on my birthday.” The raven-haired little boy gleams, his hands messing around the what Ian thought was an attempt at some dough. Mickey scoffs behind them, earning a well-used swat across the forehead from his boyfriend. Ian leans down beside the wooden chair. “Its _your_ birthday, Yev. Why do you need to surprise us?”

 

“For looking after me for three whole years.” Yevgeny gasps dramatically, lifting up four fingers, waving them before Ian's face. Mickey shakes his head, grinning, he had no idea where the little boy got his generously-sweetness from, but he could of guessed Ian's smooth, kindness would rub off on him, it managed to take a hold of him, how hard could it be? Ian brings Yevgeny into a hug. “You're too sweet, you know that?”

 

“Ew, daddy. Too much love, you got pancake all over your shirt.” He points to Ian's black shirt, now covered in flour. Mickey walks past, smacking Ian on the back with a high-five to his son. “Three years and you still fall for that shit.” Ian turns and playfully kicks Mickey's ass, Yevgeny is giggling behind them, watching as his two fathers playfully smack flour, and pancake mix at each-other.

 

Yevgeny jumps from this chair, tugging against the leg of Ian's pants. “Daddy, can we make pancakes now?” He claps his dusty hands together, grinning up to Ian who hadn't yet managed to remove the smile off his face. The redhead leans down, scooping the three-year old into his arms. “How about...you open your presents and after you and Papa can make pancakes, he's the best at it you know.”

 

“With chop chips?” Yevgeny's eyes widen.

 

Mickey nods, tiredly. “You got it, little man. We'll shove all that gooy sauce on it, pile it up is all I say.” Mickey smirks, knowing that Ian had this _lets go healthy_ thing going on. Yevgeny happily, and excitedly, claps his hands together. “Can eat it off our fingers, can we, oh can we daddy?” He runs off his mouth, enthusiastically.

 

“You do know that shit can give you-”

 

Mickey interrupts Ian with a tut. “It's his birthday man, it ain't gonna want fucking apples and those miniature pears. Let the kid have the fucking sauce, his teeth will survive for one day.” Yevgeny squirms from Ian's arms, singing to himself about syrup and opening his presents. Ian leans in towards his boyfriends ear, “You're dead meat.”

 

“Bring it on, asshole.”

 

–

 

After Yevgeny opened his presents, which was a task and a half – as the boy wouldn't stop singing about pancakes, _and_ all he did was read his birthday cards over and over, instead of actually opening his gifts. Mickey and Ian had chipped some money together to get Yev the toy car, he so desperately _needed_ , and by the look of Yev's face, it was worth the couple of extra shifts.

 

Ian watched from his seat on the leather couch, Mickey and Yevgeny were busy in the kitchen, their backs to him as they struggled to make the best pancake mix. Mickey took quick glances behind him, _just_ to flip Ian off, at one point Yevgeny had even done it, explaining that he thought the gesture meant _I love you,_ instead of _fuck off._ Ian never felt luckier, three whole years had gone too fast, he remembered running off with the little boy, not too vividly, but he remembered. Moments like this, his family actually _happy,_ he wouldn't trade anything.

 

–

 

After taking a leak, Ian nearly knocks his head against the wall, in shock, when his son suddenly appears outside the bathroom door. “Shit, what you doing sneaking up on me like that, big guy?” Ian leans down, ruffling the black hair – covered in flour and rinsed out dough mixture.

 

“The microwave is on fire.” The little boy shrugged, his hand pointing towards the direction of the kitchen, his pronunciation of microwave being the cutest fucking thing Ian had ever heard.  Ian rolled his eyes. “Don't worry about it, its just- Wait, what?” He finally clicks, smelling the burn of metal and plastic merged into one.

 

“Papa wanted to warm up some custard, but the microwave didn't like it. Nuh-huh.” Yevgeny shook his head, eyes filled with worry as he fiddled with his number-three badge clutched to his sweater.

 

Ian runs past, cursing as he notices the sudden rise of smoke coming from the kitchen. “Shit, Yev stay there.” He points to the couch, he can see Mickey by the microwave, a towel in his hand trying to waft away the smoke. “What the fuck, Mickey?”

 

“I, uh, there was a slight fuck up.” Mickey stutters, still trying to rid of the smoke coming from the now-broken microwave. Ian rushes over, switching the device off by the wall, he also grabs a towel. “ _Slight?_ Mickey, our kitchen looks like a fucking coal factory!”

 

The brunette gives him a half-hearted eye roll, his tongue smacking his lips as Ian bends over to inspect the box, that used to cook food but all its use now was to stink out the whole house. “Stop being dramatic, it was just a tin can.”

 

“Exactly you dick, have you ever heard of not putting tin into a microwave?”

 

Mickey balances himself against the counter top, clumsily using his towel to waft off some excessive smoke. “Have you ever heard of _putting_ a tin in the microwave, sickiest shit you'll see.” He remembers the time he and Iggy nearly blew up the Milkovich house, only by putting a Capri-sun into the microwave and hoping for the best.

 

They hear Yevgeny singing from the front room, his voice high pitched, “.... _Happy Birthday dear me, happy birthday to meeeeee...”_

 

They both take a second to laugh, before Ian is back for his lecture. “Well, if you haven't noticed, Mick, this is your sons birthday not a night out with Iggy, so _no_ more tins in the microwave.” He uses his finger to warn his boyfriend, before he feels himself being dragged into a kiss. Mickey always had a thing for angry Ian, like an obsession but more of a fetish.

 

“Get the fucking cake out and I'll eat _you_ out later.” Mickey had never moved so fast.

 

\---

 

“... _Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you...”_ Ian and Mickey come walking through the kitchen with the cake lit up, sparklers at the candles, a big number three splattered against the icing. Yevgeny bounces in his seat, clapping his hands as the two men carried on singing. _“....happy birthday dear Yevgeny, happy birthday to you!”_

After the hip hoorays, dismantled grunts from Mickey, Yevgeny nearly burning himself on a lit candle, they finally get to the part where he had to blow them out. Ian steps over, noticing that Mickey had already taken a seat, he couldn't help but whisper some sort of insult before leaning down beside his son. “Hey, Yevvy, since your a big boy now, you get to make a wish.”

 

“A wish?” The three-year old's eyes light up like the fourth of July, his gaze urgent and widened towards Mickey who just nods. “Really?”

 

“Yeah, bud. You can wish for _anything_ you like, just do it when you blow out the candles.” Ian tells him, one hand threading through his black-raven hair that reminded him so much of Mickey's. Mickey snorts from beside him, “Kid, if your wishing to not live here any-more, you out of luck.” He jokes, again earning a half-hearted smack from his boyfriend.

 

Yevgeny shakes his head, in shock. “ _No,_ Papa, I don't want to leave. Can I still make a wish?” He giggles, the candles still burning infront of him. Both Ian and Mickey nod as the three-year old blows out the flames, his eyes closed tightly.

 

Ian steps up and sits next to Mickey, his hand resting against his knee. Yevgeny finally opens and bites his lip, a trait he had forever-learnt from Mickey. “Only Papa can know my wish.” He fires out, jumping off his chair he rounds Mickey and wavers his hand so gesture for Mickey to lean down towards him. Ian just takes it, he's never one for keeping secrets anyway, Mickey smirks towards him – flipping him off as he brings his son to his knee. “What is it?”

 

Yevgeny makes sure Ian can't hear, he covers the side of his mouth as he whispers his wish into Mickey's ear. The brunette just nods, blankly, until finally his lips curl up into a smile and Ian has never been more fucking annoyed that he couldn't know the wish, he _really_ needed to know the wish.

 

\---

 

It was around eleven, and Mickey and Ian finally fell into the bed, tiredly. Yevgeny had only just gone to bed, he wouldn't stop hugging them, thanking them, playing for the god-damn remote control car and nearly killing everyone with it. He had even ran into his room and exclaimed it had been the best birthday ever, despite him only having three birthdays, so far. Mickey had made gestures to his son, behind Ian's back, but still Ian caught it and it just made him even more intrigued. By the time they actual get warm, Ian is reminded of how much he really fucking wanted to cuddle his boyfriend.

 

“Okay, its fucking killing me, what was his wish?” Ian breathed against Mickey's ear, leaning up against his chest, his voice was rushed and he could literally feel Mickey's smirk bore into him. If there was one thing Ian loved more than anything, it was cuddling Mickey; the older boy would wrap his arms around his shoulder, one hand running through his hair, legs tangled in the sheets, nothing was better. The brunette lifts up a little, resting against his elbows, Ian still on his chest. “If I tell you that shit won't come true.”

Ian tilts his head against the childish statement. “ _God,_ Mickey, stop being an ass, what did he wish for? More pancakes, move out to the fucking sea, _another_ remote control, what was it?” Ian pleaded, shaking the bed with his internal excitement.

 

Mickey grins, Ian had no idea. “Nah, none of that shit.”

 

“Then what shit?”

 

Mickey tuts his lips, tapping his fingers against Ian's side. “Oh you know, the usual stuff kids want these days, _like,_ I don't know, him wanting me to marry you.” His voice so casual, Ian nearly misses it, when he does hear he darts up, eyes widening down at Mickey's weak, but sweet grin.

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Don't worry about it, Gallagher, me and Yevgeny have it _all_ planned out, what you think those hand gestures were? Now go to sleep.” Mickey pulls Ian against his chest, finally sighing after getting it all out, he closes his eyes and waits for the redhead to pipe up again.

 

“How can I sleep when our son wants us to get married, are we? Are we actually going to get married?” Ian rambles like a machine gun, hands all over the place.

 

Mickey leans up, grunting, he reaches over to the side table – he fumbles around until he gets what he wants, its black box. “Thought you'd never ask.” Ian struggles to catch the box against him, once in his hold he flips it open, only to see two gold bands.

 

“You fucking dick.” Ian laughs, reaching down to the older boys chin, tilting it up and capturing his lips. It was all sentimental, until the door slammed open and their three-year old runs through, singing. _“...Happy Birthday To me!”_


End file.
